How They Met
by augiesannie
Summary: "I knew it the first time I laid eyes on you. I can't explain how, but I knew - I just knew - that we belonged together." Written for the Proboards February prompt. Please leave me a review!
1. Chapter 1

**HOW THEY MET**

 _ **Prologue**_

"You may call me _Captain_ ," he snapped at the new governess, turning to flee for the safety of his study. He couldn't resist looking back over his shoulder, just for a split second, for confirmation: could it be that he had just imagined it? But no, he hadn't, no such luck. All he could do was stride from the foyer as quickly as possible, hoping his haste would convey military efficiency, and not what he was really experiencing: shock, fear and confusion.

When he gained the safety of his study, Georg locked the door behind him, breathing deeply and trying to recover his shredded composure. He could feel the sweat trickling down his back. Although it was still early afternoon, he poured himself a brandy. His hands shook so badly that there was more brandy puddled on the bar, than made it into the glass.

"What the hell?" he asked aloud, but the empty room had no answer for him.

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The first time he kissed a girl, Georg von Trapp was barely out of short pants. Although it would have been more accurate to say that the girl kissed him: Elaina Miller, fourteen years old to his twelve. He was still reeling from the shock of her soft, insistent mouth on his, when Elaina's governess yanked her charge from their hiding place in the closet of her family's villa. He hadn't had a chance to participate as much as he might have liked.

But he never forgot the look Elaina gave him from beneath her thick, dark lashes. At twelve, he hadn't known the meaning of words like erotic, or carnal, or passionate. But at that moment, something inside him shifted, the same way it had the first time his grandfather had shown him the sea, when he'd known he'd turn his back on the family tradition of army service to spend his life on the water.

Within six months, he'd discovered in himself a talent that apparently few of his schoolmates possessed: the ability to distinguish the relatively few girls who liked to kiss from the majority, who didn't. You couldn't draw any conclusions from how pretty a girl was, how warm her smile and engaging her chatter. No, there was something in their eyes that gave it away.

By the time Georg left for the Naval Academy at fourteen, he had honed this new skill to perfection. Which came in handy; there were few enough weekends when they were allowed off the grounds, and he was eager to spend as much time as possible kissing girls, and taking other liberties he quickly learned about.

He didn't have a name for this sixth sense, although years later, as a submarine commander, he smiled to learn about the new weapons, sonar and radar and such, because they reminded him of nothing so much as his ability to survey a crowded room and hone in on the girl who promised the most fun, all while his friends were still checking their coats and lining up for drinks.

If he'd had any reason to doubt his personal radar, the events of his eighteenth birthday convinced him. His birthday fell between Christmas and New Years', so he was home from his last year at the Academy, celebrating with his parents and sister. His sister had brought home two friends from university, American girls who could not make the long trip home for the holidays.

The first girl, whose name he'd long since forgotten, was exactly his sort of beauty: dark curls, a wide mouth, a petite body with generous curves. Even though her warm brown eyes held no promise, he'd spent the afternoon flirting extravagantly with Fraulein Forgettable. But when, after teatime, he invited her to meander through the family portrait gallery – a dark hallway full of cozy private nooks – she informed him stiffly that even this little adventure would require them to be chaperoned. As though it were 1810, not 1910! And when he patted her shoulder forgivingly, she let out a shriek that nearly shattered his eardrums.

The other visitor, whose name – Lily - he would never forget as long as he lived, was the earnest type, quoting poetry one moment and political claptrap about labor unions the next, and sporting spectacles and a long, black braid. Georg treated Lily politely – he prided himself on being a gentleman toward every woman he met, regardless of age, appearance or romantic promise - but he didn't give the girl another thought until, while the butler passed slices of birthday cake, his eyes met hers. Even through thick lenses, what he saw there was unmistakable.

Late that night, he lay awake in the darkness, not entirely sure what he was waiting for. The big hallway clock had just struck midnight when the door to his room opened. Lily stood in the backlight just long enough for him to appreciate the myopic, dark-blue gaze no longer hidden by spectacles; the shining black curtain of hair that fell to her waist; and the glowing pink skin peeking from beneath a sheer chemise. Then there was darkness again, and only sounds: the snick of the door locking, her bare feet padding across the floor, the whisper of her chemise dropping to the floor before she slipped between the sheets.

The sky was just starting to lighten when she left him. He was beyond sated, so completely drained it was at least another hour, or possibly two, before he had the strength to move from his bed. The interval gave him plenty of time, however, to review everything he'd learned from Lily about love between men and women, lessons that went well beyond anything he had ever even imagined. By the time he managed to collect himself sufficiently to bathe, dress and join the family downstairs, his sister and her friends were gone.

His special talent came in very handy as Georg roamed the globe in the early years of his naval service. It led him to an opera singer in Milan, a princess in Stockholm, and at least a dozen other women – none of whom were well-brought-up girls from polite society - in whose eyes he found the promise of passion.

Without fail, once he recognized the potential in a woman, it didn't take more than a certain look from him before sparks began to fly, and the encounters that followed were breathtakingly satisfying. But unlike other men, he didn't preen or brag about his prowess as a lover. He simply took it for granted: his carnal appetites were greater than other men's, and if he was going to satisfy them during the short spells of shore leave, he had to learn to give as much pleasure as he got.

Another thing Georg took for granted, so much so that he barely thought about it, is that he would never marry. It wasn't only that he wanted to spend his life at sea. It was the memory, from his earliest childhood, of how his parents adored each other, how closely their everyday lives had been intertwined. It was, especially, the searing memory of the scene at his father's deathbed, the year he turned twenty: his father's last whispered words of love and his mother's answering sobs. Georg loved and respected his parents deeply, and he realized that the way he felt about women, and the way women felt about him, he could never be the only kind of husband he would _want_ to be, the kind his father had been.

The fleet was on Christmas leave in London the year he celebrated his twenty-fifth birthday. The rising young stars of the Empire's Navy were encouraged to represent their country in the social whirl of the holiday season and so one evening, with nothing else planned, he put in a brief appearance at the Austrian ambassador's reception. He'd make the rounds quickly, he thought, and then perhaps end the night by visiting a young widow he'd met in the National Gallery the previous day. She'd worn a smart hat with a veil that shaded her eyes, so he wasn't completely certain, but he rather thought he'd liked what he thought he'd seen.

He was standing in the foyer, looking around absently while he tugged off his gloves, when it happened.

On the wide stairway above him, people came and went, eddying around a group of young women clustered on the landing, their bright gowns massed like a colorful bouquet. Georg admired the striking sight, though the girls were far too young to catch his interest, the kind who still giggled and blushed their way through every social affair. His eyes rested for a moment on the center of the bouquet, where a tall, graceful young woman blossomed like some exotic flower. She was fair, slender, ethereal, clad in a white gown shot with silver threads: too delicate. Not his type at all. He was about to turn away when she turned in his direction and smiled.

She had pale green eyes that contributed to the overall impression of fragility. But it was impossible to miss what shimmered below the surface: the promise of some kind of secret and unspeakable erotic pleasure, like a mysterious treasure hidden at the bottom of the sea. A treasure he knew, with complete certainty, was going to be his someday.

"I believe you dropped these."

Georg turned to find a man, elfin of stature and impeccably dressed in the uniform of the Austrian Navy, handing him back his gloves. He hadn't realized he'd dropped them.

"I'm Detweiler," the man said. "A fellow servant of the Empire. I'm in Intelligence."

"von Trapp. U-boats. Isn't it supposed to be a secret, being in intelligence?"

"I'm not very intelligent," Detweiler laughed.

"Well, thanks anyway," Georg said, tucking his gloves in his pocket and letting his eyes roam back to the stairway.

"Don't waste your time," Detweiler advised.

"Who is she?" Georg asked.

"Agathe Whitehead. The youngest child of the English ambassador to Austria, and his only daughter after three sons. And you're wasting your time."

"You don't know who you're talking to," Georg said. He couldn't take his eyes off her.

"No, but I know who I'm talking _about_. Agathe Whitehead's mother is a cousin to my father's second wife. Or maybe his third wife, I can't recall. In any event, Miss Whitehead's parents are pursuing the best possible match for her, an earl, if not a duke. Her brothers keep all the other suitors away. She'll be a duchess, or a countess at least, by this time next year."

It was exactly the kind of challenge Georg relished. Tearing his eyes away from Miss Whitehead, he exchanged addresses with Detweiler, gulped down a whiskey for confidence, and elbowed aside a small crowd to claim the first dance with the green-eyed sprite.

She might have looked fragile, but he'd had her in his arms no more than a minute when he saw his mistake: she sparkled with intelligence and wit, and met his eyes with a clear, unafraid gaze. Years later, neither one of them could remember that first conversation, but they remembered what happened during their third dance – or was it the fourth?

"Why is it," she asked, laughing, "that you are the only man here who wants to dance with me tonight?"

"They're afraid of me," he boasted.

"How many drinks did you have to buy them to keep them away?" she said, rolling her eyes.

"A few," he admitted. "I'm just trying to protect you, that's all. There are a lot of unsavory types here tonight."

"Judging by the way every woman in the place is watching you, I suspect _you_ are the unsavory one," she teased. "Really, I can't dance with you again. It will cause a scandal, which will cause my mother to get one of her headaches, which will cause my father and brothers to…"

"All right," he said, "but let me call on you tomorrow."

"N-no," she shook her head, and his heart dropped into his shoes, before she continued, "Wait two days, and then come. If you don't make such a fuss, you won't alarm my brothers quite so much. You know Detweiler, don't you? Bring him too. For a chaperone."

Georg stopped in the bar to conduct a bit of background research on the Whiteheads, made arrangements with Detweiler, and whistled his way back home, forgetting entirely about the widow from the National Gallery.

Two days later, as instructed, he and Max presented themselves at the Ambassador's residence, where they were greeted by Miss Whitehead, her father, and her three brothers. All of whom settled into various armchairs in a way that made clear they weren't going anywhere.

"Bit crowded in here," he muttered, and was rewarded by a laugh from Agathe. His background research paid off, though: Ambassador Whitehead's face lit up when Georg presented him with a large box of Cuban cigars. Georg spent most of the visit discussing the international situation with the Ambassador, and letting Agathe's oldest brother – Lewis, wasn't it? Or was it Charles? Or Arthur? – beat him at chess.

He spoke to Agathe only long enough to ascertain that she was in good health, and to earn her agreement that the weather lately had been fine. But the memory of her smile when she said goodbye to him warmed him all the way home.

When he and Max returned two days later, they were joined by only two of the Whitehead brothers, who could hardly wait to open the bottle of French brandy Georg had brought with him. Max tactfully disappeared behind a book, and then the afternoon flew by in conversation with Agathe, until, the next thing Georg knew, the lamps were being lit. It turned out that they shared the same tastes in music, and adored the classics, but they disagreed violently about the latest schools of painting on the Continent. He let her beat him at chess, only to discover in the next game that she was quite capable of trouncing him without any assistance.

Over the next six weeks, it became an established pattern: every second or third day, he and Max presented themselves at the Whiteheads' shortly after luncheon, and left just after teatime. Agathe's parents or brothers might appear briefly, but they seemed to have decided to trust Georg, or at least tolerate his presence, at least so long as Max remained on duty. So while their chaperone read or napped in the corner, he and Agathe spent the long afternoons together.

She was wonderful company: intelligent, spirited, inquisitive, and they never ran out of things to talk about. Occasionally she would play the piano for him, or he would read aloud to her, and there were always rematches to be fought over the chess board. Before long, they developed their own little traditions, like the way that, without fail, she would virtuously refuse treats from the tea tray, and then shamelessly steal from his plate, which he kept full of her favorites.

And threaded through it all, through every hour they spent together, was the sound of her voice, low and musical. It followed him into his dreams.

He calculated that he should not squander the good-will he'd earned by asking to escort her out in public, and so was forced to endure the occasional sight of her on another man's arm at the opera or symphony. And if they found themselves at the same party, she wouldn't allow him more than one dance, even though it was obvious that she held other men to no such rule.

"Who's that?" he growled to Max, motioning toward a tall, cadaverously thin man with a drooping blond mustache who was gazing adoringly into Miss Whitehead's eyes while stumbling his way through a waltz with her. "He dances like an elephant."

"The Duke of Manchester. Well, not the Duke yet, but his father can't live forever," Max responded. "And don't glare at him that way. Don't glare at _me_ , either. I warned you, didn't I?"

"I suppose you serve as chaperone when he calls on her?" Georg asked tightly.

Max laughed. "She's allowed to see him, and all the rest of his ilk, without any chaperone at all. This is the twentieth century, after all. It's only for you, my dear von Trapp, there such an exception exists. A well-deserved one, I might add, given your reputation. Speaking of which, what exactly has gotten into you lately? You're obsessed with a woman you can't have, and disregarding all the ones lined up for a shot at you."

Georg waved the question away, but the truth was, that he was losing sight of how his pursuit of Agathe Whitehead had started, with the erotic promise he'd seen in her eyes the night they'd met. He did occasionally awaken in the middle of the night, the sheets twisted around him as he thrashed his way awake from dreams so shameful he could barely face her the next time they met. In his dreams, her low, lovely voice became high pitched and frantic, and … For God's sake! The very idea of her – it was absurd. He hadn't spent a moment alone with her, hadn't even held her hand!

He told himself he was simply conducting the kind of campaign that won wars: slow, steady and patient. Meanwhile, he was extremely careful to stay under the formidable radar of Ambassador and Mrs. Whitehead and their sons while he waited for his chance. And while he waited, he tried not to think about how the days of his leave were passing by, more and more quickly. Or the fact that he hadn't looked at another woman since Christmas.

One day, he took an atlas down from the bookshelf and, as he turned the pages, told her about the places he'd visited, India and China, Africa and the Americas. She sat next to him on the sofa, her blond curls brushing the pages, close enough that he could feel the warmth rise off her skin. She smelled wonderful, like lemons and mint and fresh air.

"Hold on," she said, placing her hand on his. "Go back a page."

His heart began to race like a schoolboy's at her touch. What was happening to him?

"What is it?"

"I like hearing about the places you've been, Georg. But do you know, I've noticed when your face _really_ lights up. It's when you talk about the voyages in between the ports. When you were out at sea." She paused. "You love it, don't you?"

"I do love the sea." He was silent for a moment. "I love it more than anything. I do," he said, and for a dizzy moment, it seemed like neither one of them was talking about the sea at all.

Georg finally got his chance with her in early February, although the timing couldn't have been worse, what with the telegram that had arrived the previous evening.

Still, as arranged, he met Max at the Whiteheads' front door just after breakfast. It had been snowing for days, until even Agathe's normally cheerful demeanor began to fray with the strain of being cooped up inside. Today, at last, the weather had dawned calm and sunny, if bitter cold.

"What, may I ask," Max said, "is that? And who are _they,_ while we're at it?"

"A sleigh, Max. Complete with horses and driver. I'm going to give poor Miss Whitehead some fresh air and sunshine," Georg promised. "You're welcome to come, of course, although unfortunately, it's a bit of a squeeze for three."

At that moment, a delighted Agathe made her appearance, wrapped warmly in hat, scarf, gloves and a heavy coat, exclaiming excitedly over the handsome pair of horses and the uniformed driver.

Max shivered. "Why would anyone choose to be outdoors on a day like this? I'm sorry, Georg, but there is no way-"

"Please, Max. Let me take her out alone," he asked, watching Agathe's cheeks turn pink as she pretended not to hear. He could feel the telegram in his pocket, as heavy as a stone. "I only need an hour with her. We'll stay in the sleigh the whole time, I promise."

Max sighed heavily, and, with a wordless glare of warning, turned into the house.

Georg helped her into the sleigh and pulled the heavy fur robes around them before signaling the driver, and then they were on their way, gliding through the quiet, still-empty streets that sparkled a magical silver and white. By some unspoken agreement, they didn't converse, simply enjoying the fresh, cold air, the rhythmic jingle of harnesses, the shush of the runners through snow, the glitter of sun against ice. They were on the outskirts of the city now. Under the fur robes, he could feel her warm body, leaning into his as the sleigh followed a deep curve into a wooded park, where the dark green trees speared a perfect blue sky.

"Stop here," he directed the driver. The man sat with his back to them, motionless, no doubt remembering the handsome tip he'd been promised.

He turned to her, his heart pounding so fiercely he was sure it could be heard across London. The telegram in his pocket weighed him down like an anchor.

"Agathe-"

"Are you going to kiss me now?" she asked breathlessly.

"What?"

"You _are_ going to kiss me. I mean, aren't you? she faltered, looking adorably flustered.

There was no other possible answer. He drew a finger across her cheek – surely it was the cold that made him tremble so – before lifting her chin until his mouth could meet hers, with only the gentlest pressure.

Around them, all of nature, the sky, the trees, the snow-covered ground, all of it held its breath, until she smiled.

"That was my first kiss," she confessed.

"I know," he said drily.

She narrowed her green eyes at him. "You've kissed dozens of girls, haven't you?"

He nodded.

"How was I? Did I kiss you properly? "

"Well," he said carefully, "it was appropriate. Yes. A perfectly appropriate first kiss. Look, Agathe, there's something I've got to tell you-"

"Appropriate," she lamented. " _Appropriate_? Is that all you can say?"

Before he could respond, she wound her arms around his neck and demanded, "Show me!"

"Agathe, it wouldn't be – I can't-"

"If you don't kiss me properly, I'll tell my brothers you did."

"Don't blackmail me," Georg protested, but he felt himself weakening, defenseless against that pink mouth, and worse, what he now saw again, more clearly than ever – the passionate glow in her green eyes.

He kissed her thoroughly, until they were both breathless, until he so ached with desire that, for one insane moment, he wondered if it were possible to make love to a woman in the back of a sleigh. Then his mind cleared enough to remember who he was with, and the angle of the sun told him that they'd already been gone far longer than the hour he'd promised Max. So he pulled her into his arms, glorying in the way she melted against him under the heavy robe, and ordered the driver to return home.

"Agathe," he murmured.

"Hmm?" she said dreamily. With her hair in disarray and her cheeks flushed, there would be no hiding what they'd been doing, he thought ruefully, but he pressed on.

"Agathe. Darling. I've got to tell you something."

"Darling?" she repeated, smiling.

"Agathe. _Agathe_ ," he repeated urgently. "I got my orders. I've got to report to Portsmouth in less than a week. To go back out to sea. It's a long campaign, but an important one, you see-"

She bolted upright. "Oh, no! _No_! Georg, what awful news!"

"I know," he nodded. He longed to unburden himself of the elation and excitement and fear he felt, but the grief on her face silenced him.

"I don't think I can bear it, Georg!"

"Nor can I. I knew it would come to this, eventually, but the time flew by, and-"

"I'll miss you terribly," she said, her lower lip trembling.

"Agathe. Please don't." He hated that he was hurting her, so much so that for one wild moment, he found himself wishing he didn't have to leave at all, but that was ridiculous, of course, he'd been looking forward to these maneuvers since last summer.

"What will I do without you?" she whispered, her eyes fixed on his. "What will I do?"

The words flew from his mouth. "What you will do is wait for me."

A glowing smile transformed her face.

"Oh, Georg, do you mean it?"

"Of course," he answered, puzzled by her sudden change in mood.

They were back in the city by now, the houses crowding in on them. People were out and about, and the snowy streets had turned dirt-brown from traffic, while the sun struggled to shine through a gathering haze. There were only a few minutes left before they arrived at the Ambassador's residence.

"I don't want to come back and find you turned into a duchess," he reassured her. "Or a countess. Or anything of that sort. I'll come back. It might be three months, or even six, but I'll come back, and things will go on just as they were before," he promised, pushing aside the fear that lurked deep within.

"So you'll talk to Father?"

He stared at her uncomprehendingly. "Talk to your father? About what?"

Her falling face told him everything he needed to know.

"Oh, God. Agathe. _No!_ Wait. I don't mean 'no,' not exactly, it's not like that, like I don't _want_ to. But I can't – I didn't mean-"

He couldn't meet her eyes.

"Agathe. I can't marry. I'm going to spend my life at sea. I can't be the kind of-" The word caught in his throat. "The kind of husband you deserve."

The kind of husband his father had been, he meant, and he wanted to explain it to her, so that she'd understand, but they were pulling up outside the residence now, Max, the Ambassador and all three brothers marshaled threateningly on the front steps, arms crossed.

"Then it's just as well," she said spitefully, "because, as it happens, _I_ am the kind of woman who deserves better than _you_."

Without a backward glance, she slid from the sleigh, shouldered her way through her personal blockade, and disappeared into the house.

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 **I wrote this story for the February Proboards "meet cute" prompt, though it seems to have taken on a life of its own and is growing like a weed. Please leave me a review to push me across the finish line. Throughout this story, I had to do violence to a whole bunch of historical stuff to make it work, for which I apologize to history buffs. Don't own TSOM, all for love, etc.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

He had only three days to prepare for his tour of duty, hardly enough time to write his mother and sister, arrange his affairs, store his belongings, pack his duffel. Hardly enough time to be afraid. He begged off any number of excursions with his mates seeking a last indulgence in women or whiskey, and barely heard their hoots of derision.

He did, however, call at the Whiteheads every day, without fail, only to be turned away.

On the last morning before shipping out, he spoke quietly to the butler. "Can you please ask the Ambassador if, as I am about to risk my life in service to the alliance between our countries, I might have a word with him?"

He was shown into the study. The three brothers – he still couldn't tell them apart - glowered in the corners.

"Sir," he began, but Ambassador Whitehead interrupted.

"It has always been the plan for Agathe to marry nobility. And it is _still_ the plan. I don't know what, or more accurately, _who_ , put any other idea in her foolish head, but I do know that I made a mistake with you, von Trapp. My daughter grew up in Vienna. She was bored and lonely here in London, and she seemed to find you entertaining. Knowing of your reputation, I had my misgivings, but I thought, if you were carefully supervised...I trusted you, my wife and I opened our home to you, and in return, you…"

"Sir. Let me assure you, I have nothing but respect for Ag – for Miss Whitehead. I have behaved in every regard like a perfect gentleman." He pushed away the memory of her warm mouth against his in the cold winter air, but he knew he'd never forget that she tasted like heaven. "All I ask is that you convey my apologies to her. That you tell her how deeply I regret-"

"Georg."

He whirled to find Agathe standing in the doorway. Her blond curls were piled messily on top of her head, and her eyes were red against her pale, haggard face.

"Agathe," her father growled. "Go back upstairs."

"No, Father," she said. She stood in the doorway, tall and proud, and her voice was strong and even. "Georg is risking his life in service to his country, and ours. He deserves to know that I do forgive him."

She turned toward Georg, and his heart skipped a hopeful beat before she delivered the final blow. "We will likely never see each other again, Georg. But I will always remember how kind you were to me. And I do thank you for that." She turned to leave, and he forced the words out through a throat grown dry with fear and longing.

"Agathe. Will you write to me?"

"Absolutely not," the Ambassador fumed, but she cut him off.

"I will, Georg, if I find I have something to say," she said.

For several long, charged moments, they gazed at each other. Everything else about the room and its inhabitants fell away, and he drank the sight of her in hungrily, trying to memorize everything about her. Too soon, she turned away abruptly and left the room, but not before he saw the quiver in her chin. He was sure of it.

Oddly, in the weeks that followed - weeks filled with unspeakable horror - he couldn't summon the memory of her face after all, though it pained him to admit it. On the rare occasions when he caught a few hours of sleep, she might appear in his dreams the way she'd been the night they'd met, sparkling with laughter, that gleam of carnal promise in her eyes.

But it was almost impossible to remember her bright smile in the hell that was his waking hours. Every one of his senses was under assault: the groan and steely clash of submarine machinery, and the howls of injured men; the foul stench that filled his lungs; the grease and grime that saturated his skin; the half-darkness of their underwater vessel; the bright-red stain of his mates' blood.

Certainly the mission was successful – eight enemy ships down in twelve weeks, and the loss of life, while tragic, was less than expected. But something new and disturbing was happening to Georg. During each engagement, throughout every ferocious battle, he went cold with terror. Ten years at sea, and five years of service underwater: never before had he been this afraid in the heat of battle, and he dimly wondered why.

During the last night of active combat, when it seemed they could no longer withstand the enemy assault, when their captain told them, gravely, to be prepared for the end, _that_ was when he heard it: the low, sweet hum of her voice in his ears. The sound stayed with him against the screech and moan of the straining vessel; it gave him back the courage to lead one last charge that, somehow, vanquished the enemy, leaving the Austrian crew just barely able to limp back into port the next day.

He slept for thirty-six hours and awakened to a world filled with still-unfamiliar light and space. Spring had come while they'd been submerged, and birds sang in the newly-budded trees.

"Mail call," the clerk barged into his quarters and emptied the sack out onto the table. Georg didn't wait for the man to leave the room before beginning to paw through the pile, searching frantically, and when he found it, he didn't know whether to laugh or cry: there was a letter.

 _One_ letter. If she'd written him just once, there was no point even opening it; he already knew what the letter would say, the news of her betrothal to one or another duke or earl, no doubt.

Sighing, he put her unopened letter aside and tore open a fat envelope from his mother, stuffed with clippings celebrating the first few successes of the campaign. Doubtless she'd have filled several more envelopes by the time he saw her. From the corner of his eye, he saw the words "Ambassador Whitehead," in one of the headlines, and there it was, a photograph of the Ambassador and his family returning to Vienna to join in the victory celebrations. Unfortunately, the three enormous Whitehead sons blocked any view the photographer might have had of the rest of the family.

There was a telegram, too, and Georg tore it open and read it three times before he could make sense of it: he was being promoted to Captain with his own command; he was being given the honorary title of Baron; and he was to present himself at the Emperor's Court in four days' time to receive the Maria Theresa cross in recognition of his bravery. Reeling, Georg sat on the bed.

"There's no end to it," the clerk grumbled, hustling back into the room with a second sack. Since the table was covered, the man upended the second bag onto the bed, and that was how Georg found himself awash in her letters, dozens of them, fluttering in the air like leaves that slowly came to rest all around him.

He was back in Vienna three days later. The Emperor would have to wait until tomorrow. Today, he would face whatever fate awaited him at the English Ambassador's residence. He felt curiously light, unencumbered: he was no longer the carefree ladies' man and untested soldier he'd been when he was last in Vienna, and he didn't yet know who he was going to become instead.

The reception this time couldn't have been more different. The Whitehead sons were not in evidence. The Ambassador met him personally in the foyer, and once they were seated in the study, plied Georg with brandy, cigars, and thanks for his service to his country.

"Well done, my boy. It reminds me of the campaign back in '78, you know."

"Thank you, sir," Georg interrupted, "I _am_ grateful for the hero's welcome. It's far more than I deserve, but what I really want to know is-"

"Agathe," the older man chuckled. "Of course. You want to know about Agathe, do you? Well, let me tell you something about Agathe, young man. She's stubborn. Determined to get what she wants. There's no standing in her way once she has her mind made up. Don't say I didn't warn you." He paused. "She turned down a duke and two earls. And she's waiting for you across the hall."

Georg was on his feet and halfway out the door before he remembered. Turning back toward the old man, doing his best to keep the edge out of his voice, he said, "Ambassador? I thought you'd want to know. I've got a title of my own now."

And then he was across the hall and she was in his arms, laughing and crying all at once. She clung to him and he was glad of it, since he thought he'd probably faint dead away with relief if he didn't have her to hold onto. He wanted to tell her everything, about the terror and her voice in his ears, and the bright morning sun on his face after twelve weeks of darkness, but all he seemed to be able to do was repeat her name, like a prayer.

At last, they were calm enough to sit side by side on the sofa, and a sudden, awkward shyness took over.

"You came back to me," Agathe whispered.

"There was never any question," he said, before adding, idiotically, "You look the same. As though none of it ever happened."

"Were you – was it awful?" she asked.

The answer stuck in his throat, so he only nodded.

"When are you going back, Georg?"

He hadn't been absolutely certain until it was time to say it aloud, but his voice was clear and strong, as though he'd known it all along.

"I'm not going back, Agathe. I'll accept the honor from the Emperor tomorrow, but I won't accept the command."

" _What?_ Are you mad?"

"I love being at sea. I love serving my country. And I might be able to manage the suffering, the fear. But I can't bear the thought of losing you, God help me. I think I was more afraid of that than anything."

Green eyes blazing against her flushed face. "Georg. You can't do that. I won't let you do that! I love you too much!" Her hand flew to her mouth and her cheeks turned bright red. "Oh, dear. I don't suppose I should have said that."

He grinned. "Still outspoken, I see. You're making it easy for me, darling. Because I've loved you since the moment I first saw you. You're going to marry me, and I'll make you a proper husband, I swear it, I will." He reached to take her in his arms, but she slipped from his grasp and began to pace the room.

"I don't want a proper husband," she said. "I want _you_. A man who goes out to the sea he loves, and then comes home to me."

"You don't know what you're saying," he said quietly. "It couldn't possibly work. My mother and father, they…"

"I'm not your mother, and you are not your father. This is _us_ , Georg. We can make whatever rules we want. After what you've been through, no one will stand in our way."

"Agathe. Do you have any idea what it would be like for you, being alone for weeks or even months at a time? And what if something happens to me?"

"I'd rather have you and then lose you, than never have you at all." She stamped her foot.

He wasn't sure it was a proper subject of conversation, but he was desperate enough to warn her, "Agathe. Stop and think. Are you willing to – to have your husband – ehrm - give you children and then leave you alone to bear and raise them?"

She stopped her pacing and came to stand just in front of him, so close he caught her fresh, delicious scent. Looking him straight in the eye, without any hesitation or blush, she said, "If that's what I have to do? Yes. _Yes_ ," she repeated loudly.

"Agathe," he said firmly, rising to his feet. "I'm sorry. But I don't see how this can possibly-"

"I know you don't," she was nearly shouting at him now, "but you've _got_ to!"

He fought down a bubble of laughter in his chest and tried to look serious.

"Agathe Whitehead," he said, taking her gently by the shoulders, "are you _ordering_ me to marry you?"

"Oh, dear," she said, and for the first time an edge of uncertainty crept into her voice, "I probably shouldn't have said that either." Her eyes sought his, looking for reassurance, and all of a sudden, it was restored to him: the sensuality he'd seen in her pale green eyes, that first night months ago. Georg was swept by a wave of lust so powerful his knees nearly buckled.

Before she could have second thoughts, he said hastily, "Because I would never dream of disobeying an order, darling. Come give me a kiss. How soon do you think we can make it official?"

That kiss was the single most erotic experience he could remember in all of his twenty-five years. Thanks to the combined chaperonage of her parents, brothers and the traitorous Max Detweiler, it was also the _last_ kiss he got from her until, six weeks later, his beautiful bride brushed her lips against his at the altar, in front of hundreds of Europe's finest citizens.

He handed her into the car that would take them to the wedding breakfast, gleefully slamming the door in her brothers' faces before ordering the driver to take the longest possible route to their destination and taking her into his arms. But she was strangely stiff and nonresponsive.

"Agathe?"

She gave him a tremulous smile, and her eyes were shining, but it wasn't with happiness.

He handed her a handkerchief. "Goodness, we haven't even made it to the wedding breakfast. What's wrong? Don't tell me you've changed your mind." he joked weakly.

"N-no. Of course not. I'm sorry," she said, wiping her eyes. "It's – well, Mama told me about what to expect tonight. It doesn't sound very nice," she said. Her lower lip began to tremble. "I _loved_ it when you kissed me, and I was so looking forward to, well, you know, _more_ , but Mama said the rest of it is quite dreadful." She looked down at her knees, but he could see that her cheeks were stained bright pink.

"Agathe. Darling. Look at me." Georg tilted her chin up so he could hold her gaze. "With all due respect to your mother, she's misinformed. At least when it comes to us. It's going to be wonderful. I promise. I _know._ "

"How do you know?" she sniffed, and then before he could answer, she added, "On second thought, don't answer that. Mama reminded me you'd been with lots of other women. She said that I should understand if you couldn't help comparing-"

" _What_?" For a moment, he regretted his wicked past, but the truth was, it didn't seem to have all that much to do with his feelings for Agathe. The thought occurred to him for the first time that he had no more experience with innocent virgins than Agathe had with men.

"All right." He took a deep breath. "Look. I've never been married before, either. This is going to be new for both of us. Maybe it will take us some time to get used to each other. I don't really know. But you trusted me enough to marry me, didn't you? Then trust me when I tell you that we are going to make each other very happy."

"What if I don't like it? What if I'm not good at it? What if you don't like being with me?"

He laughed. "None of that is going to happen. I'm quite certain of it, Agathe. Because we belong together. I've known it since the first moment I saw you, standing on the stairs at the Austrian Ambassador's residence. I wanted you more than I'd ever wanted anyone or anything. I can't explain how I knew, but I did. I just _knew_ that we would end up together."

The color was returning to her cheeks, and the spirit to her voice.

"Like you'd never found yourself attracted to a pretty girl at a party before?" she scoffed.

He supposed he ought to be circumspect, to protect her from the truth, but he wanted her to understand.

"The truth?" he said. "Lots of times. I've always been mad about women. I had this kind of sixth sense, like radar, that never failed me, that led me to – well, it didn't lead me to girls like you, as a general rule. When I saw you that night, I tried to tell myself it was a waste of time, that I had no chance of ever having you. And God knows, everyone else told me the same thing. But I couldn't stay away from you. And somehow, even with all that supervision," he confessed wryly, "or maybe because of it, I seem to have fallen in love with you. During that last battle, when I thought all was lost-" He choked into sudden silence.

Her soft hand crept into his.

"Georg? This sixth sense of yours. It said something about _me_?"

When he looked into her eyes, Georg wished he could drown in what he saw shimmering beneath the surface. "Not about you, Agathe," he whispered tenderly. "About _us_. That we are going to be magnificent. Stupendous. Glorious. Brilliant." And then her soft mouth had found his, though he wasn't done with superlatives yet.

Of course, he'd been right. When he reported for duty three months later, he left behind a wife who had not only become an ardent, inspired lover, but was carrying their first child, a daughter, whose birth he missed. He missed four births of the first five, actually, and being at her side for Friedrich's birth had been a mixed blessing. Because each time he came home to meet a new son or daughter, he vowed to stay away from her, not wanting to subject her to _that_ again, especially when he wasn't going to be there to help her bear the consequences. But they couldn't keep their hands off each other, and, as Agathe told him after Brigitta's birth, "If you're going to disappear beneath the ocean for weeks at a time, Georg, I rather like that you leave your mark behind."

As it had turned out, that had been his last mission before the war stripped Austria of her seacoast and Navy, and him of his command. He'd been by her side for the birth of their youngest two daughters, just as she comforted him through the crushing loss of his first love, his life at sea.

And then came her death, the greatest loss of all, the loss of the second and final love of his life.

He'd only visited Agathe's grave once, on the first anniversary of her death, and was so shaken by the grief that struck him like a tidal wave, that he never returned. It took him days to scrub the dirt from underneath his fingernails where he'd tried to claw his way back to her.

Thank heaven, all that mess was behind him now. It hadn't been easy, erasing every sign of her existence from the villa, discouraging the children from mentioning her, at least in his presence, stepping up the discipline, banning music and laughter from the house. It seemed, somehow, that he was at war with his children over their mother's memory. In some remote corner of his mind, Georg knew what he was doing made no sense, and his children knew it too, judging by their behavior, which grew worse every year. His own childhood been full of music and laughter, and love, but then again, there had been two loving parents present as well.

He could only hope that the tide would turn now that he was putting their new life into place by marrying Elsa Schrader. He enjoyed an easy friendship with Elsa, and while he couldn't quite picture her as mother to seven children, surely the right governess would help solve that problem.

What really appealed to him about Elsa, was that she wanted nothing more from him than he was able to give. He was no longer the foolish young man who imagined he could find the right woman by searching for the carnal promise in her eyes. It had been there with Agathe, yes, but what had that gotten him in the end?

Elsa's eyes were beautiful, not to mention warm and kind, but they were blessedly free of any erotic spark. Of course, if he married Elsa, there would be the small matter of their wedding night. He'd put her advances off for weeks, talking of honor and respect, but he hadn't been with a woman since Agathe, and the prospect filled him with an odd mix of anticipation and dread.

 _That_ disturbing thought was thankfully chased from his mind by the clang of the warning bell for dinner. Startled, Georg realized that he'd spent the whole afternoon sprawled in the big chair in the study, recovering from his first encounter with his children's' new governess. He was feeling calmer now, though he wasn't sure if that was because he'd drained a half-bottle of brandy, or because he'd sent off a panicked telegram to Elsa proposing that he bring her to Salzburg, a step he'd been putting off for weeks.

Or perhaps it was because the villa had been strangely peaceful all afternoon, which meant that the new governess had lasted at least up to the dinner hour, breaking her predecessor's record. _That_ was an encouraging development. Wasn't it?

With a sigh, he rose, climbed the back stairs to his room, and began to dress for dinner. As soon as he had Elsa's reply, he'd be safely on his way to Vienna. His earlier panic had been unfounded, really. He'd probably imagined the whole thing. There was nothing to worry about, really.

Nothing at all.

 **OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

 **T** **hank you so much for the lovely reviews, follows and favorites. And for your tolerance about the historical inaccuracies. No, it isn't over. No, I don't own anything about TSOM.**


	3. Epilogue

_**EPILOGUE**_

"I thought I just might find you _here!_ "

Maria turned to greet him with a delighted smile. "Hello!"

"You know how I hate it when you simply disappear like that, Maria. What was it that made you run away to the gazebo?" he asked. "There wasn't even a note this time."

"Georg. Are you _ever_ going to stop joking about my running away? I've only been gone a few minutes, and anyway, you know perfectly well I'm never going to run away again. I'm sorry. I just wanted one last moment out here, you know, before it's time for me to leave."

"You've got a few more minutes, love. Franz went to bring the car around. Are you sure I can't drive you back to Nonnberg?"

"No, no." she said. "It would break my heart to say goodbye to you at the gates of the Abbey, but it is no trouble at _all_ leaving Franz."

He laughed. "It's only one night, Maria. This time tomorrow, we'll be on our way to Paris. Six weeks in Paris! Without a single child or child-like chaperone in sight. Just the two of us. And after that, we'll have the rest of our lives together."

A shiver went up his spine at the thought of their honeymoon. He loved Maria deeply, but the last few weeks had been torture, having her live and sleep under his roof, leaving him completely distracted and unbearably aroused by her burning blue gaze, her ripe mouth, her impossibly soft skin.

From out of nowhere, it seemed, the fiery passion that had burned within the young Georg von Trapp had been reignited. For the first time in years, he had dreamed of Lily, his sister's friend from university – except that Lily's hair was somehow short and blond, and she had sprouted freckles on the bridge of her nose. He awoke sweating with shame and desire.

What made it even worse – and much to his surprise – Maria had responded to his first, tentative advances with clumsy enthusiasm. He hadn't expected to be the one to have to slow things down during their engagement, and the only way he'd survived was to insist on scheduling the wedding as quickly as possible.

Maria had been thrilled. "Really? So soon? Oh, Georg, that would be wonderful! I thought you'd insist on waiting. That you'd be worried about what people would think."

"If this goes on much longer, they'll be right," Georg had growled, and that had been that.

Maria looked lovely tonight, wearing the same blue dress she'd worn during that _other_ magical meeting in the gazebo, only a few weeks ago. Since then, he'd brought her trunkfuls of new clothing, but she refused to wear any of it until after the wedding.

Though he knew he was playing with fire, Georg couldn't resist taking her in his arms. "Take one last look around you, Maria. Next time you see this, you'll be an old married Baroness, with her honeymoon behind her."

She rotated within the circle of his embrace, surveying the glass building that surrounded them, aglow in moonlight.

"This is where it all began," she sighed dreamily.

"Not really," he said.

"Oh, yes. Of course. The terrace. The Laendler," she nodded.

"That's not it, either. Let's start at the very beginning."

"In the ballroom?" she scoffed.

The ballroom had lain in shadow, but he remembered the way a shaft of sunlight had lit up her golden hair. And he would never forget that first glimpse of her wide, astonished gaze. Fiery blue jewels, fringed by dark velvet. By the time they faced each other in the foyer, there wasn't any doubt.

"I knew you were mine, Maria. From the very start."

"Right. In my black boots, and that horrible hat? You can say whatever you like now, but at the time, you were obviously put off by my appearance, the way you made me turn around-" she clapped a hand to her mouth.

"Georg von Trapp! You were _inspecting_ me!"

"That dress fit you very nicely," he chuckled, sliding his hands lower over her hips, and pulling her close to him.

"But you _hated_ that dress. You wanted me to change before I met the children, I think."

"It wasn't the dress, anyway. It was the person in it," he informed her.

"I'm sorry, Georg, but nothing you say can possibly convince me that you knew."

It didn't entirely reflect well on him, and yet, just as he had with Agathe so many years ago, he needed her to understand.

"But I _did_ know, Maria. You see, when I was a young man, I had this sort of – ehrm – talent. I could tell at a glance if a girl was," he blew out a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling, embarrassed to admit it, "going to be any fun. I was young, you know, and not the least bit interested in good girls."

"So I've heard," she said drily. "Lucky for me that you reformed. Now go on with your story. Because I'm still not convinced."

"The first time I saw Agathe, I knew that we would be – well, it made no sense! She was carefully brought up, you know, very sheltered, with three fearsome older brothers, and her parents were terrible snobs. Yet I saw it in her eyes; I didn't know how, or when, but I knew we'd end up together."

He paused, just long enough to press a kiss to Maria's forehead.

"It was the same with you, darling. It didn't matter that I am so much – I mean, that you are so young. Or that you had come from Nonnberg Abbey. One look at you-"

"-and you fell madly in love with me. Right, Georg. _That_ explains your behavior. Ordering me about as though I were one of your men. Talking of command and discipline. Chastising me at every turn, with every sentence _dripping_ with sarcasm. Refusing every reasonable request, _firing_ me. Proposing marriage to another woman! All completely logical actions for a man in love. I can't imagine how I missed it!" she laughed.

"I didn't want to believe it either, Maria," he said wryly. "I thought all that was behind me. I had no intention of putting myself through any of it again. Love. Or even lust, for that matter. Once in a lifetime was enough heartbreak and disappointment for me. I only considered remarrying for the children, honestly, especially the girls. And then, all of a sudden, there I was, knowing, with absolute certainty, that I was going to end up bedding-"

"Georg!" Roses bloomed in her cheeks.

"-a nun!" he finished, dramatically.

"Not a nun," she protested weakly. "A postulant."

"Oh, undoubtedly, that distinction would have made me feel _much_ better, Maria. I was completely unnerved. You were trouble from the beginning and what's more, you admitted it!"

"You were going out of your way to intimidate me, Georg, and you know it."

"A purely defensive maneuver," he retorted. "I managed to get the children downstairs to meet you, and was just about ready to make my escape, clinging to the last shreds of my composure, when I heard a – a sound. I turned around to find you with that whistle in your mouth. That _mouth-"_ he stopped and kissed her, so hard he had to catch her around the waist when she stumbled backward. "That mouth of yours," he repeated fervently. "And then, to top it off, you said – surely you recall it?"

"No. All I remember is feeling sorry for the children, and wondering how long I'd last before being sent back to Nonnberg."

"You said, and I quote, 'Excuse me sir, I don't know _your_ signal,' and then you looked up at me with that cheeky innocence of yours, the way you do when you want me to kiss you."

"I do no such thing!"

"You do too, and _you_ know it. You're doing it right now," he said smugly, kissing her again, and she kissed him back, until they were both breathless.

"I _didn't_ want to believe it," he murmured into her soft hair, "but there it was. I _knew_. I hadn't felt that way about anyone, not since – I thought I might be going insane. I _knew_ I was going to hell; that much was certain."

"What did you do next?" she asked him. She wrapped her arms around his waist and nestled her head against his chest, in a spot she'd already claimed as her own. "Because you certainly didn't act like-"

"I went and had a drink, and then several more after that. I began making arrangements to flee to Vienna, as though running for my life. When the children pulled that pine cone trick, I thought – I _hoped_ , for one fleeting moment – that they'd gotten the best of you, but instead, it simply earned you their undying devotion. Which, in turn, so enraged me that I broke up the fun you were all having in your room, like some kind of lunatic tyrant. And none of it did a bit of good," he said contentedly, drawing her closer.

Their idyll was interrupted by the loud blast of a horn.

"Time to go," Maria sighed. "No, don't come with me. It will just make it more difficult to leave. Sweet dreams, darling," she said. Kissing his cheek, she wriggled out from his embrace and turned toward the path that led to the front of the villa.

He stood in the doorway of the gazebo and watched as she walked away, briskly at first, but her steps slowed, and then stopped. From where he stood, Georg could see her square her shoulders, as though she'd reached some kind of decision, before she turned back to face him.

"Georg?"

"What is it, darling?"

"If you knew about me. If you were so sure. Why didn't you say something? Why didn't you _do_ anything about it?"

He laughed. "Patience. A skill honed to perfection in hours spent lurking deep in the ocean, waiting for the right moment to attack."

He was lying, he knew that even as the words left his mouth. He'd had no plan of attack. Instead, he'd had every intention of ignoring what his senses warned him could not be ignored. All summer, he'd struggled heroically to resist her, and on the rare occasions when he slipped – that dance in the garden, for example – he'd bent over backward to feign indifference in the aftermath. It wasn't until he'd seen her reaction to the news of his engagement that he'd come to his senses, wondered why, exactly, he was hurting someone he would give his life to protect by stubbornly resisting the truth he'd known all along. At that moment, he stopped making excuses and began preparing to meet his fate.

Of course, she read the lie on his face. She always did. "I don't believe you. Try again."

He raised his eyebrows. "Have you forgotten, Maria, that you were hoping to become a nun? I was not about to get in between you and God."

"You know perfectly well that was not the life I was born to live, Georg. You knew that from the start."

"How about this? I am most decidedly _not_ the kind of man to make advances toward my children's governess."

"True," she said thoughtfully, meandering back toward where he stood in the gazebo doorway. "That _is_ true. But I think there was something else that kept you away from me."

"And what would that have been?"

She took both his hands in hers, and lifted her blue eyes to his, in that way that always felt as though she could see straight into his soul.

"I think you felt guilty."

"Guilty? You mean about Elsa? She _was_ a guest in my home, and I suppose I thought it would be inexcusable to-" He shook his head. "In the end, I was dishonest, to both of us, and utterly unfair to her."

"Not about Baroness Schrader," Maria said quietly. "I mean about Agathe."

Around them, the moon and stars stilled, and the night held its breath. Even the smallest sound – the lake lapping at the shore, leaves shivering in the night breeze – could be heard.

"No, no, no. _No_. Not at all. No." he protested.

Another long silence.

"I mean – well – perhaps. In a way." he admitted slowly. "It seemed disloyal, somehow. That I could feel this way again. Does it bother you?"

She shook her head. "You wouldn't have been you otherwise. Does it bother _you_?" she asked.

"No," he smiled, adding, "a man with seven children ought to have known there is always room in his heart for more."

A second horn blast, louder and longer this time.

"I've got to go," Maria said, though she made no move to leave him.

"Now that you've got the whole shameful story, you _are_ still going to show up tomorrow morning, aren't you?"

She laughed. "It's a relief, actually. To know I wasn't the only one who felt that way."

"O-ho. You know all along, did you? Thanks to your extensive experience with men, undoubtedly."

Maria narrowed her eyes at him. "I didn't need experience to know what was happening. Do you remember the night the children put on the puppet show?"

"That was the first night in four years I'd held a guitar," he recalled fondly.

"That's not the only thing that happened for the first time," she said with mock severity, putting her hands on her hips. "There was something about the way you looked at me that night. One moment it was like you wanted to devour me…"

He slipped his hands around her waist and leaned down for a kiss.

"…and the next," she smiled against his mouth, "you looked like you wanted to put your head in my lap and have me pet you."

"You know, that was _exactly_ the way I felt!"

He kissed her, triumphantly, but then she broke free from his embrace and began pacing back and forth across the gazebo, remembering.

"I didn't want to believe it either, Georg. That's what I told Reverend Mother, you know. All summer, it seemed impossible to deny that something was happening between us. The way you would look at me sometimes, I could barely breathe! I was _terrified._ Confused. And thrilled, too, all at the same time! But then the doubts would creep in. I'd tell myself I was imagining things, that a man like you would never be interested in someone like me. The night of the party, when you danced with me, I felt like I'd been turned completely inside out. And then not five minutes later, you acted like I barely existed! Oh, I wanted you, but I didn't want you, and-" she trailed off.

A few quick steps and he had her in his arms again. "I'm going to spend every minute of the rest of my life making sure you know how much I love you," he promised.

"I am not finished yet," she admonished him. But she let him hold her close, and he felt her tremble when his fingers traced the back of her neck.

"The whole time I was at the Abbey, I saw your face everywhere," she confided. Even though her voice was muffled against his chest, he could hear the emotion in her words. "Your eyes, watching me. Following me into my dreams. I was so unhappy, and yet, I was happy too, because even though I'd gone back to Nonnberg, a part of me still believed. Still _knew_."

A third horn blast – angry, prolonged, likely to rouse the horses in the barn and small children from their beds.

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow morning, right?" she said wistfully.

They laughed together at the absurdity of her remark. The next time he'd see her, it would be at the altar, in a cathedral full of hundreds of guests. She hadn't wanted such a formal wedding, but he'd insisted: he wanted there to be not a single doubt about how much he loved this remarkable woman and how proud he was to be marrying her.

They clung to each other for one last moment and then, once again, she began to trudge up the path toward the villa.

"Maria?" he called after her.

She turned back toward him. "Yes, darling?"

"There _will_ be an awful lot of people there tomorrow. Just remember, I'll be the one in the uniform."

She grinned. "I'll be the one in the veil."

"You don't have to worry about that," Georg assured her. "I'd know you anywhere."

 **OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Hundreds of people stood and turned toward the doors at the back of the Cathedral. The choir's voices soared and the music swelled, louder and louder. Two small, white forms hovered barely in sight, moving with agonizing slowness, until he could finally make out Marta and Gretl, and then a moment later, Liesl took shape out of the shadows.

And then there she was, his bride, a vision in white satin and lace, gliding up the aisle.

His heart stuck in his throat, but he held completely still and forced his expression to remain impassive. Georg fought back the instinct to crane his neck, to strain for a glimpse of her, to call out her name. He wanted everyone to know how important she was to him and his family, but some things, like the way things were between him and Maria, were too raw and powerful to let the world see.

His eyes followed her up the aisle as though she were the only star visible in a dark night at sea. At last, she drew close enough that he might have seen her face – except her eyes remained fixed on the toes of her white satin shoes. "Look at me, Maria," he thought, " _please_ , look at me," but he realized that she was entirely focused on her ordeal: the long walk up the aisle, and the altar stairs.

She'd been fretting about it for days: "I'll be so excited, I'll probably forget myself and dash right up the aisle. Or I'll trip and fall flat on my face. So many people watching me! And then there are those stone stairs up to the altar, fourteen of them, Georg! _Fourteen!_ I'll never be able to manage, not in those shoes!"

At his worst, he'd laughed at her fears, and at his best, he'd distracted her from them, but now he saw the challenge through her eyes, and he felt guilty for putting her on display this way. The moment he had her hand safely in his, he'd never let go again.

Maria was at the bottom of the stairs now. The music crashed around them, but all he knew was the tiny quiver in her chin before she began the climb.

One, two, three, four steps.

"That's it, love, you're doing fine," he thought.

Five, six, seven, eight steps.

"You're almost there, darling," he thought, and then, with a start, he remembered he needed to be ready for her. He tucked his hat and gloves under one arm and moved toward her.

Nine, ten, eleven, twelve steps.

He extended his hand, reaching for hers.

Thirteen steps, fourteen, and then she was on the altar at last, and her hand slid into his as though it was always meant to have been there.

She lifted her face to his, and their eyes met at last.

 **OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoooOoOoOoOoOoOoO**

 _Lovely one,_

 _Your eyes are too big for your face,_

 _Your eyes are too big for the earth._

 _There are countries, there are rivers,_

 _In your eyes,_

 _My country is your eyes,_

 _I walk through them,_

 _They light the world_

 _Through which I walk,_

 _Lovely one._

 _-Pablo Neruda_

 **OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

 **THE END**

 **OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

 **Proboards prompts are the absolute best, aren't they? I had fun writing this story for February, especially since I had to watch the ballroom, foyer and wedding scenes repeatedly. Tough job! The funny thing is that when it comes to TSOM, I'm not usually in the "love at first sight" camp. Anyway, thank you so much for reading my story, and for all the lovely reviews. While I was writing it, I revisited some old posts on Proboards for inspiration, especially the bit about how Maria's ugly dress fit and how it was the girl, not the dress, I think those were both from utility_singer, so thanks to her and the rest of my buddies there. And thanks to lemacd for support during my last-minute wobble. Don't own TSOM or anything about it.**


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